


Shift

by detritius



Series: Wincestverse (Originally posted on tumblr) [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Minor Character Death, Monster of the Week, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4081051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detritius/pseuds/detritius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU of "Skin." Sam is held captive by a shapeshifter wearing a familiar face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shift

**Author's Note:**

> My first Supernatural fic, finished March 2011. Strictly first season related and fairly irrelevant. Enjoy?

Ropes. That’s the first thing he feels when he comes around. Biting into what feels like every inch of him, wrapping the full length of his body. Instinctively, he struggles, his eyes flashing through the darkness for his assailant. His hands go numb as he tries to free them, and he’s in no position to reach his knife. The blood is pounding in his ears. Were those footsteps? Thinking fast, he lets his arms go slack in front of him and wrenches his shoulders hard. Blacks out for a second. He wakes up hanging limp in his bonds, tears running out of his eyes. Shuddering, he chokes breath into his searing lungs in ragged little gasps. As he stills, the rope sunk deep into his neck loosens. The warning is clear: he can’t move.

He hears a noise of contempt in front of him and looks up, his airway constricting again in punishment. He hears laughter, dark and twisted from a familiar sound as he eases his head back, gasping, and then that thing steps into his line of vision. Its gloating smirk, its cruelty making Dean’s face ugly, just about makes his blood boil. He tenses, his body flooded with adrenaline, his limbs shaking as his circulation cuts off, and the thing’s face splits into a sick grin. He hadn’t been afraid before, not really, but the look in the thing’s eyes makes his heart clench with terror. “Where’s Dean?” he spits.

The shapeshifter surveys him with flat, calculating eyes. “I wouldn’t worry about him,” it says, circling closer. “I’d worry about you.” Sam flinches as the thing trails one finger down his jaw, and when it traces over the swell of his lower lip, he risks strangulation to pull away. He hears that corrupted laugh again as he straightens up, panting. The thing just smirks, watching him. “You know, the more I learn about you and your family…”

“Learn?” Sam asks. Maybe if he can keep it talking…

But the thing shrugs it off, apparently not in the mood for the Bond villain monologue. It looks distant, like it’s straining to hear a faraway sound, but then its eyes snap back to him and it smirks again. “And I thought I had issues,” is all it says. It moves out of his sight again, but he can hear its footsteps circling, predatory. “You know, I’ve been doing this awhile,” it says from behind him, “Seen a lot of things. But the two of you -” It whistles. “You’re something else.” It’s in front of him again, looming close, and in the dim light, Sam can see that the thing is wearing Dean’s clothes, his jacket. His amulet. The clothes it could have stolen from the car, but…

“Where is he?” Sam asks, his throat tight. Only place it could have got that goddamn necklace is off Dean’s body. His skin goes cold. “Where’s my brother?”

“Right here, baby boy,” the thing says, moving over him, straddling his bound legs. Sam tries to jerk away, but there’s nothing he can do. The thing takes hold of his jaw, tilting his head up so their eyes meet.

“You’re not him,” Sam says, defiantly as he can manage. He barely gets the words out.

The thing gives him a familiar crooked grin that makes his skin crawl. “No,” it says, and its grin just widens, “No, I’m not.” It goes blank again for a second, come back looking hungrier. Its eyes are burning with lust as it toys with his collar, and Sam can’t help but think about all the times he’s seen that look on Dean’s face before, in countless bars and dives, looking for someone to take him home. It was something they’d fight about. Seems so stupid now. He swallows, his eyes stinging. The thing doesn’t seem to notice, slipping open two buttons on his shirt, its hand creeping inside. “He’d never do this, would he?” it asks, spreading its palm flat over his chest, its fingers curling over his left pectoral. Sam thinks its skin should be cold and dead, but it’s not. It feels real. He shudders. “You like that, huh?” it asks, its voice husky. It eases down onto his lap, its weight against him, its heat. He cringes, but there’s nowhere to go. His body rocks against the thing’s, and it grinds back hard against him, moaning a little, its face going slack. Sam has to close his eyes. He thinks he’ll heave and tries to fight it back. The rope around his throat would probably kill him. Kill him, too. Fast, the tears well up, and he bites the inside of his cheek, refusing to let them fall.

“What’s wrong, little brother?” the thing asks. It untangles one hand from his shirt and skims its thumb under his eye, smearing wetness. “I got you,” it whispers, and Sam grits his teeth.

“Screw you,” he spits, and the thing pulls back, blinking. Several expressions flicker across its face in seconds, and its eyes roll back in its head. It shakes, its muscles straining. Sam wishes he could use the distraction to get the upper hand, but he’s tied down too tight, and all he can do is watch as the thing pulls itself together, its eyes opening, its expression flat and hard again.

It smiles, all cruelty. “Just you wait,” it says. “We’ll get there.” And its hands are on him again, rough and greedy, making him grit his teeth to stifle a gasp. He wants his own hands free, wants them around the thing’s neck. A silver bullet would be too fast. A savage, awful snarl rips out of him. He wants it to feel its own death. But the thing just laughs at him as his hands clench in the ropes, helpless. It just slides in closer, and he cringes again when he feels the thing’s lips on the side of his face, its hell-hot breath in his ear. “It’s okay, Sammy,” it says, mock gentleness that makes him want to scream. “It’s okay to want this.” It licks a sick, hot stripe down the side of his face, and he moans out loud in revulsion. So fucking sick. This thing, this monster, wearing his brother’s face, defiling his memory. A mockery of everything good between them. “You might as well enjoy this,” it whispers, “‘cause this is the only chance you’re ever gonna get.”

“Like hell!” His voice breaks.

“Oh, don’t kid yourself,” the thing says, its mouth hot on his neck. Its teeth are inhumanly sharp. “Even if you both get out of here alive, he’ll never give you this.” Sam’s heart quickens, a shred of hope breaking into him. “He’s close,” the thing whispers. “I bet he can hear you, moaning like a little bitch. You think it turns him on, Sammy? Think you can make him come?” Sam’s breath catches in his throat. He realizes the tears have broken free at last, but he doesn’t care. A choked, desperate cry tears out of him, and the thing grunts, bites down hard on his shoulder. He barely feels it. It doesn’t matter. All that matter is that Dean is still alive. He’s almost sobbing for it. The dread falls away like a shed skin, and he’s reduced to breathy little moans as his heart winds down. His body is limp with relief. “You like that?” the thing asks, rough. “You want him to hear you?”

“Yeah,” Sam gasps. “Yeah, sure.” His head is spinning. If Dean’s okay, if he’s here, that can only mean one thing. He’s probably tied up like Sam is, and he’s working himself free, trying to figure out their next move. He considers for a second that maybe Dean’s as immobilized and helpless as he is, but of the two of them, he’s always been more flexible, better with his knives. He’ll make it. He’ll be here. And Sam just has to give him time.

He does the only thing he can think of. Slowly, restricted by his bindings, he hitches his hips up against the thing’s. “Oh, is that how it is?” it asks. “Bring him into it, and suddenly, you’re interested?”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes. “Yeah, please.” He tries to roll his hips again, but it’s barely anything. He wishes he could do more, draw this out. Now, this is bearable. It’s just a job, him and Dean together.

The thing laughs softly, peeling his shirt back best it can. “And you think you’re hiding it.”

“Hiding - hiding what?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb with me,” it says, favoring him with a mocking pat on the cheek. “He knows, Sam. He -” But the thing stops. Its mouth falls open, and it tightens up, its hands groping at its temples until the moment passes. For the first time, Sam wonders what kind of battle it’s fighting in its head. Maybe he can use this to his advantage.

“Knows?” he prompts.

The thing blinks its eyes open. “I know how you watch me,” it says. The change in its tone, its expression, is uncanny, and it sends a shivery sensation racing through him, raising goosebumps on the back of his neck. “It’s something I try not to think about, but…” It shakes its head. “Why do you think I’m so careful how I touch you? What I let you see? I don’t want to make it any harder for you.”

“It’s not…” Sam starts automatically, and doesn’t know why he’s saying it. He doesn’t need to rationalize himself to a monster. “It’s not like that. I…”

“Shh,” the thing whispers, its fingers over his lips. “It’s okay,” it says. “I don’t think any less of you for it. It just can’t happen.” The thing pushes his shirt aside, gently now, and he feels its hands, strong and warm, on his chest. “If it ever did,” it whispers, “I wouldn’t be able to stop. And that would be wrong, Sammy.” It lowers its head, laying a kiss just over his heart. “I’m supposed to protect you,” it whispers against his skin. “I could never…” But ever so slowly, its hips grind down against Sam’s.

“Yeah,” Sam pants, “Yeah, give it to me.” Is this what it wants? Some fantasy? He gives back as well as he can, squirming in his bonds, groaning: loud, theatrical phone sex noises. It sounds fake to him, but the thing responds, its eyes closing.

“God, Sammy!” the thing groans. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby. Gonna…” He feels the thing’s hand on his fly.

“Mmm, yeah. Yeah, that’s it, come on.” He hopes his voice doesn’t tremble. He’s uneasy. He doesn’t know if he can keep this up. Then the thing’s hand slides into his pants, and his voice breaks. “Oh -!”

“Good?” the thing asks.

“So good,” Sam whispers. 

The thing grins. “How ‘bout this?”

“Yeah. Yeah, please!” His voice is coming out a whine, and he can’t stop it. The thing’s working him up through his shorts, and he starts to shiver and sweat. He tries so hard to fight back the feeling, but God, it’s been so long since he’s been touched like this, and God, has he been wanting. The thing pulls away from him too soon, and he can’t help the sound he makes, whimpering at the loss of contact.

“Shh,” the thing says, stroking the muscles of his stomach. “It’s okay, Sammy. Gonna get you off, I promise.” It slides in close and grinds down against him again, and he can feel its hard cock dragging against his through the fabric of its jeans. His deep, throaty moans are anything but fake now, and he closes his eyes against the shame. The thought that Dean’s probably listening to this almost kills him. He wishes he could reach out with his mind through the intervening space, tell his brother _I’m sorry. This is all for you, every breath of it. Do you understand? I’m doing this for you._ Above him, the thing stops moving, convulsing again, and achingly hard as he is, he hopes to God it’ll have another one of those mood swings and this’ll be over. But then the moment passes and it’s sucking on his neck as its insistent hips go back to work on him, and he can’t take much more of this. He’s gonna come. He’s gonna come and Dean’s gonna hear it, hear him screaming and moaning for the monster wearing his face. The guilt tastes like bile in his mouth. And it gets worse. His breath catches in his throat as he feels the thing cradling his face, feels its breath against his lips. “Hey,” it says, and now its voice is pitch-perfect for Dean’s, not distorted. “Hey, look at me.” But he keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to see that face, signals firing in all the wrong directions. “Sam,” it says, in that warning tone he can’t help responding to.

He opens his eyes, and it’s Dean’s face so close to his. His deep green eyes, his dark, curving lips, his worry-creased expression. And Sam doesn’t want to believe in any of this, and he reminds himself that his brother - his real brother - is fighting to save him, listening to every second of this. It’s all just some twisted illusion. But it feels real. The shapeshifter leans even closer - God, it even smells like him, like cologne and old leather - and Sam sees its eyes close as its lips brush up against his.

The caress of its lips is generous and yielding, hesitant and slow. Its stubble scrapes against Sam’s cheek, but softly, and its hands tangle up in his hair. Sam feels his eyes dropping closed, and he tries to fight it, but God! If he had ever imagined what kissing Dean would be like - and he tells himself, tells himself he never has - it would have been just like this. It’s the taste lingering on his lips that really breaks him down - indefinable and faint, but somehow, the thing tastes like hole-in-the-wall diners and wind on the highway and sarcastic remarks. And maybe he’s just too hard and needy and anything would get him just like this right now, but God, it seems too perfect. Like a piece sliding into place that he didn’t even know he was missing. He moans out loud, and the guilt’s there, too, knowing now who that sound is really for. And then the thing’s tongue is in his mouth and the guilt fades down too.

It’s not slow anymore, not slow at all. The thing’s gripping his face and thrusting in as deep as it can, trying to claim every inch of his mouth, his throat, his insides. And he’s kissing back, God help him. He’s panting and aching and battering the thing’s mouth with desperate, teeth-filled kisses. The thing growls and bites him back, its hips bucking against his, stuttering and brutal, and isn’t this exactly what he wanted every time he and Dean ever fought, their bodies knotted together, slamming each other against the walls or the floor, their skin hot, their hips crashing together, their legs, their hands, their sweat? It’s too much. His eyes open, looking for something to hold onto, but the thing’s face, a breath from his, is Dean’s face, perfect with the eyes closed, mouth open with pleasure, moaning too, gasping, loose and vulnerable, and this is what he’s waited for, and he’s going to come, he’s going to come, he’s going to come -

The thing pulls back just before it sends him over the edge, looking at him with something more than lust, and it’s tearing him apart. “I want you so bad,” it whispers. “Wanna fuck you, Sammy.”

“Okay,” he says, and he’s betraying everything. He wants this. Fuck it, he wants this, and he knows he’ll never get another chance, never get a shot at the real thing. But through his haze of need, he still knows that doesn’t matter. Not enough to change anything. “I want you,” he says. “I’m ready. But this isn’t how I want it.”

“What do you want?” the thing asks, breathless. Its fingers are dipping under his waistband again, weakening his resolve.

“I want - I wanna do this right,” he says. “The angle’s no good, and you’re… you’re not gonna be able to get any leverage. Please,” he moans, “Take me on my back. Please, I’ll be good. I want every inch of you.”

The thing pulls back, looking at him calculatingly. “What are you asking for?”

“Untie me,” Sam whispers. “It’ll be so much better. Please, I’ll give you anything you want, I want this, plea -” His head snaps to the side, his face stinging. He opens his eyes, and the thing from before is back, stiff and bristling.

“You little bitch,” it snarls. “I thought you were different, Sam. Thought you’d cooperate.” He catches the glint of a knife in the thing’s hand. Time’s up.

“I will,” he pleads. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -” The words are cut off by a gasp as the thing drags the tip of its knife down his arm, blood welling up hot. “Please,” he whispers. “It was a mistake.”

“Oh, was it?” the thing asks, its knife playing across Sam’s stomach now, stinging shallow cuts. “‘Cause I get the idea you knew exactly what you were doing. Thought you could play me for a fool, didn’t you?”

“No, I -” The thing slashes a sharp line down his chest, tearing through fabric and muscles and skin. He almost thinks he hears the knife grate against bone, and he can’t help the desperate, awful moans that tear out of him. Too wet. Too much blood. His eyes are streaming again. 

The thing holds its knife up to his face, the blood dripping down on his cheek, mixing with his tears. “Don’t lie to me,” it growls.

Through the pain, Sam feels the ropes around his abdomen come loose. Time. He just needs more time. “Yeah,” he says, his voice shaking. “Yeah, I thought I could fool you.”

The thing nods and pulls the knife away from his face. “That’s my boy,” it says. It cups his face for a second, like it’s going under again, and it actually looks regretful. “You know, Sammy,” it says, “I was gonna let you live.”

 _Yeah, good, keep talking._ “Why?”

“Well, I bet you would have been a good fuck, and I like to reward that kind of thing.” It lowers its knife to him again, scratching abstract patterns on the insides of his arms. He barely feels it compared to the slow-spreading deep burn in his chest. The fruitless gush of his heart. He’s losing feeling in his fingertips. The thing doesn’t seem to notice any of this. It just keeps working on him while it talks. “But mostly,” it says, “It was up here.” It taps its forehead, leaving a smear of blood behind. “See, what I did to those girls was easy,” it says, “‘Cause deep down, their boyfriends wanted to carve them up as badly as I did. But you…” It trails off, tracing a bleeding heart into Sam’s wrist. “Your brother fought like hell to keep you alive, you know that? Seems he’d do anything in the world rather than hurt you.”

There’s a lump swelling in his throat, and for once, he gives into it. “Yeah, that’s Dean for you,” he whispers. He lets a single tear fall artistically down his face, and hopes it distracts from the fact that he’s working his shoulders, inching towards freedom, even as he starts to feel lightheaded. He’ll have to work faster.

“He’s a sick fuck. You both are. Yeah, it’s hard for me to hurt you while I’m in him. Even now, it’s killing me a little to do this to you.” Maybe that’s why the cuts it’s tracing into the back of his hand are so shallow. He can’t feel them at all. “But you know what, Sam?” it asks. “Fucking you wouldn’t have been hard at all. I mean, there was some resistance at first, but having my tongue in your mouth, my hand on your dick… it felt like coming home. The two of you are freaks.” It carves _Sam + Dean_ into his bicep and wipes the blood away, studying its handiwork. “I was still gonna let you go, because it felt so good I didn’t care. But you blew it, Sammy. And it may take a long time, but I am gonna kill you. I’ll bleed you for hours, and your precious brother will get to hear every gasp, every scream. He’ll hear his name on your lips when you die.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

The shapeshifter’s eyes go wide, its form blurring as it whips around. There’s a loud bang, a shotgun blast, and it dies in mid-step. That look of empty shock is still on its face as its body crumples to the floor. It takes a sick effort for Sam to look away from its staring, dimming eyes, but when he does, Dean’s kneeling in front of him, peeling off his sweat-soaked tee shirt. He thinks dizzily that he’s traded one illusion for another, or maybe he’s even dying, and this fragile stained glass picture of his brother is what he gets instead of his mostly shitty life flashing in front of his eyes. Then Dean’s pressing the shirt against the gaping hole in his chest, stopping the vital gush of his blood. His heart feels like it’s slowing down a little. Dean’s face comes clear, along with his voice, and Sam hears his name over and over, whispered like a prayer. 

“Dean?” he asks. His voice sounds thin, worn down by all the sounds that thing wrenched out of him. “That really you?”

“It’s me, Sammy,” he says, his eyes glistening with relief. “It’s me. I got you.” He’s using both hands to keep pressure, and it hurts like hell. Sam’s never been so glad for pain. “You okay?”

A weak smile breaks over Sam’s face. “Yeah,” he answers. And he is, now.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but you look like hell. Hold this for me, okay?” Dean cuts one of his wrists free and guides his hand down to the mess of bloody fabric that’s keeping his life in. Sam holds on. He feels the ropes start to fall away from him as Dean runs his hands all over his body, searching out knots to cut. It occurs to him how close they are. It occurs to him what a compromising position he’s in - spread out, tied up, pants open - but he’s too weak with relief and blood loss to care. 

“If you hadn’t taken your sweet time, I’d be a little prettier right now,” he says. The smile even comes easy. “What took you long?”

“Well, that chokehold, whatever it was, was a real bitch,” Dean says, loosening the one around Sam’s throat. “Never say I haven’t put my neck on the line for you, Sammy.” He makes short work of the rest of the knots, never letting his knife so much as brush Sam’s tortured skin, and he helps Sam to his feet. “Can you walk?”

“I think so,” he says, but Dean keeps one hand on the small of his back anyway. 

“Good. We gotta get out of here. Someone might have heard shots.” He only stops to pull his amulet off the shapeshifter’s neck.

Back at the hotel, Sam lies half naked over the covers. The big wound on his chest is already covered with gauze and tape, and Dean’s on the bed with him, bent low, doing his best for the cuts all over Sam’s arms and stomach. “Dean,” Sam says, weakly, trying to push himself up on his elbows, “it’s okay. I can handle this.”

“Lie still,” Dean says, resting a hand on Sam’s uninjured shoulder to hold him there. “You lost a lot of blood. Don’t wanna overexert yourself.” He’s using a cotton swab to clear the blood away, revealing their names cut deep into Sam’s arm. “That guy was a piece of work, huh?” he asks, the only acknowledgement he’ll ever give to what happened between them tonight.

But Sam doesn’t want these things going unsaid. “Listen, Dean -” he starts.

“Shh. I know.” He wraps a clean white bandage around Sam’s bicep, covering the evidence.

That should be enough, but Sam can’t seem to let it go. “What I said,” he protests, “What I - what I did… I knew you were coming to get me.” He’s pleading, like he doesn’t expect Dean to believe him. “I was just playing along, to give you time. It wasn’t real. I didn’t-”

“Sam,” Dean says. “I know.” He finishes the right arm and moves to the left, dealing with the deeper cuts first, swabbing out the heart etched into Sam’s wrist. “Don’t worry about it, alright? I would have done the same thing.”

Sam looks up into his brother’s face, and what he feels isn’t sick or wrong or twisted. “That thing,” he says, “It didn’t know anything about us.”

“Course not. Murdering son of a bitch. That’s what these things do. They lie, try to get into your head.” A ghost of a smirk flickers across his face. “I guess in your case, they try to get into your pants, too.”

Sam groans, but he laughs a little bit, too. He means to say something in reply, but he ends up just looking at Dean instead. He’s covered in rope burns and bruises, but that probably won’t even occur to him until he’s satisfied that Sam is going to be all right. The concentration on his face doesn’t waver, even when peroxide gets into the scrapes on his hands. His green eyes are intent, but there’s more behind them, always more, some essential part of him the shapeshifter could never copy. The words fall out of his mouth before he’s conscious of wanting to say them. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“What, for saving your ass?”

“Yeah.” It’s more than that, but he doesn’t know if he could put it into words, even if he wanted to.

Dean shrugs it off, like always. “Don’t mention it,” he says. He breaks out a box of Band-aids, ready to start in on a thousand tiny cuts.

Sam shakes his head. “I could have died,” he says. “If you were anyone else… I think I would have.”

“That was just that creep trying to justify what he did. You can’t listen to that bullshit. Open up a second.” Sam opens his mouth obediently to let Dean dab at his split, bitten lip. “Anyway,” he says, “It’s over now, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “It’s over.” And in realizing it, the exhaustion that’s been building up behind his eyes finally overtakes him.

“Good.” He reaches up, strokes the hair lightly out of Sam’s eyes. “Don’t let it mess with your head, okay?”

Sam nods, beyond doing anything else, and as usual, Dean can tell.

“Alright then,” he says. “You rest, Sammy. I’m looking out for you.”


End file.
